


Multiplicity

by meanderingsoul



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Being Walked In On, Disturbing Themes, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Lazy Sex, Loneliness, Masturbation, Multi, Overstimulation, Polyamory, Seduction, Sex Positions, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-26 10:58:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12057567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanderingsoul/pseuds/meanderingsoul
Summary: Who was in the bed in their apartment depended on mission schedules, work emergencies, and what mood everyone involved was in that day. Sometimes the couch would do. Or the kitchen counter, but only once.





	1. Solitary

**Author's Note:**

> This whole fic was an idea spawned from the counting structure used in Vera's Supernatural fic Move Over. I thought the structure made a wonderful poly prompt, because people have needs and stuff going on in each other's lives and not everyone is going to be in the same place all the time. Especially when everyone involved are super spies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to oneself.

>

Clint had realized over years of hearing locker room mouth-breathers yakking that he didn’t feel the need to go out and fuck as much as what seemed like most other guys. Or even fuck himself all that much.

And, you know, he’d had a hard time watching his mouth around annoying people for a while there, so he got told to go fuck himself _a lot_.

He _could_ , of course. There was nothing wrong with his dick. And his ability to notice tiny details, a twitch or a flinch, meant he could be damn sure he wasn’t shit in bed or something. It was just his hookups had never been motivated by anything that seemed to approach actual lust and jerking off was something that happened maybe a couple times a month. Maybe.

Coulson told him once that his discipline, the bowman-ship, lent itself to a certain asceticism, that all the holding so still or waiting with complete focus or drilling with his weapons for hours every day already had him in the habit of ignoring non-immediate bodily needs.

Clint really didn’t think that had much to do with this. His junk was just usually happy to stay in his pants unless Natasha or Coulson were nearby and ready to go.

Still, jerking off had its uses. Like those times he came back from an op too tired to fall asleep and still ready to nock and _fire_ in a second but couldn’t hit the range to burn it off.

Damn did it suck when he got his hands scraped up.

He barely blinked behind his glasses on the subway, refused to bounce on his toes. His report was turned in, full debrief pending tomorrow morning, but his left upper arm was badly abraded and he’d cut the shit out of his right hand while getting out of his perch. Stupid busted glass had been everywhere. His shoulder muscles felt like they were _crawling_ for his bow.

Clint let out a heavy sigh when he’d bolted their door behind himself. Damn he was tired, but he eyes stayed wide open.

They’d left the sheets on for him when they’d left.  That was nice. He could pick out the scent of Nat’s hair and traces of Phil’s sweat when he squirmed down into the blankets. He rubbed his face down into Natasha’s pillow since she’d been gone longer, stroked himself off belly-down surrounded by their scents.

He fell into perfectly contented sleep a moment later.

>

Natasha had very few hang-ups about sex.

Nobody ever wanted to believe that, but it didn’t make it less true. Screwed up as the whole situation might have been, she’d simply never had the chance to form the usual taboos or learn societal expectations before she’d had any. Sex was an activity like any other, like eating or fighting or travelling. Sometimes it wasn’t pleasant. Sometimes it actively hurt and you did it anyway for whatever reason.

Escape. To avoid suspicion. Theft. To gain entry. Money.

Shield had never assigned her to fuck a target, they didn’t seem to assign those missions at all, using some overcomplicated system of badly veiled implication and volunteering instead. Natasha had never quite understood the point of dancing around it and no one had ever been able to offer her a satisfactory answer why obfuscation was more decent than being direct. But, if she said it was the most efficient way to accomplish an operation in the briefing Coulson always backed her, despite other agent’s stares of pathetically naive pity or suspicion and the overworked psych department’s complaints. And the consulting psych department’s complaints, though Coulson made himself listen to his.

It still took her a while to figure out that ease with the topic was because he’d done the same kind of thing before. He wasn’t half bad at it either, and for Natasha to be willing to say that about anyone took a lot. They’d made a game of it after a while, picking each other up in varying locations with varying assumed identities, never quite getting undressed while pretending to be other people, but they  It was kinda fun.

Clint did not run those sorts of ops. Under any circumstances. He could turn himself into any sort of blue-collar everyman in three languages, could even manage a passable hipster if needed. His ability to blend wasn’t the problem, but the sorts of marks that would go for Clint over another agent were the kind that would get off on trying to break him.

This hadn’t even _been_ one of those kinds of ops. She’d been safecracking in Baku, retrieving some dark stones she hadn’t been supposed to touch with her bare hands. She’d dropped them off at the Sandbox on her way back with no complications except Agent Blake’s annoying demeanor and something about capricorns.

There was no reason for sex to have crossed her mind.

Except she was both tired and restless from the long flights. She’d seen a male couple jogging together out the bus window riding up 10th Ave, old sweatshirts and short brown hair, and she hadn’t had Clint and Phil in the same place for longer than a day in two months.  

Natasha locked their apartment door behind her, then locked the additional bolt, the steel chain, and armed the silent alarm before she opened their bedroom window to the frigid air outside. She stowed her gear, checked over the other windows, and took in the state of their fridge which only had three bottles of beer, a withered onion, and an empty pizza box. At least she wasn’t _that kind_ of hungry.

Then she went back in their bedroom and closed the window, pulled all the curtains tight.

She still only did this the one way. Nothing else worked. She had tried.

Natasha stripped her clothes off onto the floor, and pulled the cuffs out.

She fastened the cuff around her left wrist and the bed frame, pulled up the cold sheet around her bare shoulders, slid her other hand beneath, between her legs.

She knew how to grind down with the heel of her hand to get off in mere minutes, silently, with gritted teeth and not a single rattle from the cuff’s chain. Quick comfort and shallow bliss.

But it was enough to take the edge off.

She didn’t let herself go to sleep after, even though the restraint on her arm was making her drowsy. She rode out the limp muscles for a few more pleasant minutes before undoing the cuff and tucking it away in its packet on the back of one of her dresser drawers.

Some things were private, should be private. In this version of her life she’d finally learned how to keep some things just for herself.

>

Phil had always preferred the shower to the bed for this.

He generally understood that a bed was the preferred location to masturbate, but he’d really never done that by himself. He’d been too worried about being overheard back home. Then there’d been roommates and thin walls, May’s tendency for several years to sleepover at random, time spent in bases and safe houses and hotel rooms. Really, he’d spent most of his adult life with very intermittent privacy.

Showers were private, the white noise of the water and some greater expectation of not being barged in on, able to rinse clean and move on with the day afterwards.

Beds were things to be shared. If there wasn’t a lover to share with, why bother settling in? Stroking himself off had never been something that helped him sleep anyway.

He’d woken up after day five of putting out fires in the Manhattan office to stale sheets, half hard with that ache in his belly that said he’d really better not ignore things for the three further days it would be before his people were back. Clint and Tasha still had 12 hours to make the Johannesburg check in.

He ran the water hot, let it fall over his back while he leaned his forehead against the cold tiles and stroked himself tight and steady the way he knew would work quickest, and thought about nothing. He felt his legs shudder and his jaw drop open at the brief flush of full body pleasure when he came.

Phil rolled the last tension out of his shoulders with a heavy sigh and turned off the water to get dressed for work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is already written and I will post again next Monday. Hope you enjoyed the read <3


	2. Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for you and me.

 

>>

Clint had always been very physical with Natasha.

Ok, that didn’t really sound right.

That first chase, the one that she’d let come to a draw, had kinda set them up to be physically competitive. They'd gotten a glimpse of each other’s capabilities before Clint had even lowered his bow and it had been like a light bulb clicking on. They raced, they sparred, they shot together. They came up with overcomplicated floor routines, danced at clubs and made everyone in the place jealous out of their minds, they jumped out of windows and on to moving cars. Clint knew all her muscle fibers like he knew his own, every last red little piece.

So. He knew there really wasn’t a sex position out there that they didn’t have the muscle tone, flexibility, and coordination to pull off.

Standing up had been one of the first things, and that was just _standing up_ to fuck, not braced up against a wall, just his shaking legs and Nat’s forearms braced on his shoulders. They both had the core strength to do it without spinal injuries, the extra exhaustion after just a bonus. Nobody under this roof didn’t have sleeping problems. Then he’d gotten her to tip back and balance on her shoulders while he braced her feet on his chest, and that had been fricken amazing. And there was any time spent licking into her with her thighs over his shoulders and his hands cradling her ass while she arched against the wall above him.

He’d started looking up more the complicated stuff on the internet after the first couple times, because why not. They were both usually at the peak of un-enhanced human fitness and Clint intended to make the most of every last moment he was going to get with her. A stable forever-after had never been in the cards for him, not really, and he wasn’t going to wreck anything good they could have now by counting on having laters.

He never told Nat, but he was sure she knew why he nudged her into certain positions and even where he got the ideas. She got him like that. Clint still used other people’s wifi to look that stuff up on principle, their neighbors or random cafes. He didn’t ever use Stark’s either. He wasn’t _that_ stupid. Stark was a nosy bastard.

Tasha had her hands on the kitchen counter’s edge, palms braced and fingers locked around the speckly stone. Maybe it was stone; Clint wasn’t actually sure. This angle let him slide into her deep, let him watch the muscles flex in her back, her ankles braced in his hands so she could rock back to meet his hips.

They could keep this going a while longer, his heart wasn’t racing yet, but she looked so good from this angle it was making him pant and she knew it, sharp grin on her face. She glanced back at him sharp green eyes and that look that said she could eat him alive if she wanted and oh fuck he loved her so much.

Phil walked in on them. It was evening, so it was about damn time. Tasha would have heard the door, but it was too faint a sound for Clint like this. Clint grinned at him over his shoulder.

Phil stared. He walked right past them into the office and closed the door.

Tasha made a little thrumming sound instead of laughing.

Ok then? Huh. It was hardly the first time he’d walked in on them. Usually if they were all here all locked up in their place he’d either join in or pour himself a drink and watch.

Maybe that reaction had been more to do with them _both_ being on top of the kitchen counter. Technically Clint’s knee was next to one of the stove burners. Whatever. The galley setup was convenient for this.

Tasha grinned back at him through the tangled spill of her red curls, squeezed down around his dick that way that made him whine in his throat and know to get a damn move on before his back hit the floor.

He curled down a bit to kiss her instep and mumble, “yes ma’am,” into her skin before getting back to work.

>> 

They were half-dressed on the couch with their blinds wide open because it was a gorgeous midafternoon and the sunlight gilded Clint’s hair in a way Phil had always liked.

That and they were both too jet-lagged to bother walking the extra five feet to close them. At least Jakarta had been uneventful.

The seam of his old couch dug in to Phil’s knees, but he didn’t care right now, kneeling astride Clint’s hips in just his grey undershirt, the days’ suit flung over one of their kitchen chairs. Phil’s bottom lip was held tight between his teeth, Clint had teethmarks around his collarbones, and they fucked in a quick, bouncing rhythm because like this they could keep it going as long as they wanted.

They didn’t do this very often. Phil didn’t generally have a taste for it, not like Clint did when he wanted to be exhausted and out of his head for a while and wanted Phil to give that to him. Phil had no patience with being fingered and lacked the masochistic streak his lovers shared. When Tasha wasn’t in the mix, when it was just them they usually stroked each other off in bed or sucked each other. Getting Clint to the point where he’d whimper under his mouth was one of Phil’s favorite things.

But every once in a while when they were pressed close, when Phil had his hands wrapped around his gorgeous shoulders or scritching through his light hair, whenever Clint slid his hands down the back of Phil’s pants as a question he always said yes.   

And once they were actually into it, it was always so damned good Phil was already choking down on the impulse to _scream_.

He could only think in little loops, how he felt when they did this together, how Clint looked in this kind of light, how it felt like there wasn’t enough space inside his body for air anymore, Clint’s rapturous half smile and raspy panting, the denim rubbing against his back when they moved. He could barely get it together enough to jerk himself off. Clint’s hands were tight on his hips, a grip that ached already, would bruise. Phil didn’t _fucking care_ right now. His hand stuttered on his dick, squeezed down too tight around the head but it just added to the _too much too much oh fuck I might die from this_ feeling of it all.

Phil was always on top when they did this. He’d never been able to make himself do anything else. Even with it being _Clint_ , Clint he’d let stitch his skin and put a gun to his head before, he just couldn’t. It didn’t seem fair somehow, it felt like he’d had Clint every way they were physically capable of, and every time they fucked like this he thought let him, _let him_ , let him push you down, let him have you however he wants before you don’t get another chance to try. Clint had never asked for anything else, never mentioned it, was so clearly just as surprised and delighted every time they did it like this. Every time Phil told himself _let him next time_.  

His shirt was sticking to his back, was smeared across his belly. Phil managed to reach back and drag it off over his head, reeled back against Clint’s bent up thighs when the motion shifted his dick just right inside him.

“Oh fuck Phil. _Phil_ ,” Clint groaned, smoothed one rough hand up from his hip across his belly to his chest adoringly, something that had never made sense to him, eyes half open and mouth bitten pink and still fucking up into Phil in a way that made him choke on air.

Phil heard the bolts click back into place on their front door. Tasha was back from headquarters. She was going to… Phil stifled a groan with the back of his hand. Clint, with his eyes fixed delightedly on where they moved together, didn’t notice a thing. The way he checked out of his surroundings when in the middle of sex was as sweet as it was worrisome given their line of work, but they could keep watch for him. He was safe under their hands.

Tasha sat down across from them in one of the kitchen chairs, ankle on knee, black tapered slacks and white shirt and a glass with scotch in her hand, and it was so, so obvious she was going to watch without laying a finger on either of them. Oh _god_.

Clint looked up when the ice clinked in her glass, met her dark gaze for a long moment and Phil laughed breathlessly when the man flushed pink from the attention and swallowed hard, like Phil hadn’t been steadily riding him this whole time, like Tasha’d never seen them fuck before. He let himself pitch forward, braced his hands on Clint’s arm and sucked one nipple into his mouth, lips open wide the same way he’d do for Tasha. Clint gave a frantic little squirm under him and Phil smiled.

Next time. He should let Clint have him however he wanted next time.

>> 

They had the blinds pulled down and only the one lamp on, pinkish light through the red shade.

The room was dim and warm and quiet, the sheets clean under their damp skin.

Natasha’s shins were on the mattress but most of her weight was really resting across Phil’s hips, her ass rubbing against the thinner soft skin of his belly as she rocked. He was buried in her deep in a way that would ache tomorrow if she wasn’t careful, but she liked feeling him like this, liked being able to clutch around him, grind her clit against the lean thigh he had drawn up between her planted knees.

Phil’s right hand rubbed up and down her back, slow and firm, his left arm resting back over his head, eyes half closed and glittering dark when she looked over her shoulder.

Somehow she always forgot they were bigger than her. It was such a ridiculously stupid thought. She’d thrown them down to the mats and carried them wounded and been carried by them. She knew their weight and size. She knew Clint could carry her around with one arm if he felt like taking his life in his hands. But they all fell into step so easily. Surely they were the same size as her? Shoulder to shoulder.

But Phil’s palm and spread fingers spanned her whole back, warm and smooth, with his fingertips curled around at her ribs. Like her, he made sure his callouses never got too noticeable for the roles he needed to play. They both _adored_ Clint’s blatantly roughened hands.

She leaned forward along his leg, rubbed her face against his knee and fought the urge to just set her head down and close her eyes. Her hips kept shifting back and forth on their own. It was effortless to ride him like this, in their room, in their bed with a familiar rhythm.

She liked the idea of it, that they could both fall asleep like this, that their bodies knew each other well enough to finish the task on instinct. It seemed romantic.

But maybe it was weird. She wouldn’t be one to know.

Phil curled his hips up against her _just right_ again, enough to make her moan, drive the building heat, the needy throb between her legs that much higher.

Clint let himself in with a rattle of keys and faint cursing from the kitchen. They’d left the bedroom door open for him. A half-tied boot came through first, the other plunking down neatly next to it, his shirt dropped to crumple on top. She felt Phil sigh under her at that, but he didn’t fuss, didn’t even twitch.

She opened her eyes and Clint was pulling his socks off by the toes, one red one purple. “I swear you guys have the laziest sex life for two in-shape people that I have ever seen or heard about.”

“Hardly my problem if the visual isn’t impressive enough,” Phil said breathily, she’d squeezed down on him again and his hands moved to curl around her hips. They were getting close, getting overheated and sensitive and tired. It was just what she’d wanted.

“Now I never said anything like _that_ ,” Clint almost purred from right next to them.

She glowered up at him and Clint pressed a warm kiss against her mouth on his way past. Whatever. She had a graze on her arm with four stitches in it and Phil’s knee was still hurting from whatever and wherever his last week had been. They hadn’t been with him for that op. Neither of them liked it when Phil was in the field without a specialist whose skills they trusted, and there weren’t many of those. Basically just three.

Clint squirmed onto the bed next to them with his jeans still cold from outside, settled on Phil’s outstretched arm like he was going to take a nap, leaned up to mouth at his jaw.

It put his hipbone at a convenient angle to brace her hand, ride Phil that little bit quicker. She was close enough now, wanted to finish and curl into the warm space waiting for her along Phil’s other side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to have chapter three out early next week again, but no promises! Real life is busy this week. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think <3


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